of cannibals and death angels
by sloanwritesstuff
Summary: when the National Tattler gets a hold of some juicy gossip pertaining to the whereabouts of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, the pair finds themselves needing to leave Buenos Aires, a new venue already in Hannibal's sights. Meanwhile, the FBI's crumbling to pieces at the possibility that the Polaroids the Tattler had published were legitimate, drama ensues. [ drabble ]


author's note: alrighty guys, so this is the first official clannibal thing i've written and i felt like posting it. one thing you ought to know is that it follows book canon not movie canon, so if you've not yet read the book, please be warned of spoilers. it takes place not too terribly long after the novel _Hannibal _by Thomas Harris. I don't know if I'm going to add more to this, it's pretty much just a huge drabble or something. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it.

Of Cannibals and Death Angels

Written by Sloan Richardson

In seventy-two-point Railroad Gothic, the words "HANNIBAL '_THE CANNIBAL' LECTER & "CLARICE 'DEATH ANGEL' STARLING SPOTTED_" were screaming at Doctor Alan Bloom; the headline of the latest issue of the _National Tattler_. Normally, the man would find no interest in the trashy tabloid, but it spoke of the once-gold-star agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Most had believed she was dead, made another one of Lecter's now countless victims. However, Bloom still had some hope that she was alive. This was not exactly what he had hoped to find. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Swallowing hard, he blinked back his anger before continuing on to read the article. Since the death of Freddy Lounds, the articles had become far duller with time. However, most found the latest bit of news to be quite enthralling.

He let his hues penetrate the words, despite his not wishing to pay it any heed. The article read: '_An anonymous tip and Polaroid images were submitted to the authorities in Buenos Aires, Argentina two weeks ago, and later on that week sent straight to the FBI. It's speculated that their time together in the country had resulted in the death and consumption of at least six people who were reported missing in the last three years. The only leads on it being them were their priors, mostly murderers themselves, or rapists and child molesters. Though, it is impossible to say if there are even more victims of the pair that have gone unreported. Some believe that Starling is being forced to commit these heinous acts, while others believe their tale to be a sickening real-life reincarnation of 'Beauty and the Beast'. Whether these images (see below) are authentic, and the pair's current whereabouts are things that neither the United States nor Argentinian task forces are positively sure of. When will this cat and mouse game end? When will Hannibal 'the Cannibal' and his marked accomplice finally be brought to justice?' _

After reading, his eyes drifted to the photographs. The quality was not horrid, but it wasn't spectacular enough to make a positive identification. The readers believed it, ate it up—so to speak. Doctor Bloom, however, was not so inclined. He found the act of breathing difficult as he managed to glance at the photos. It was apparent by the clothing that these photos were taken during two separate occasions. In two, Lecter wore a black suit and a uniquely patterned tie with a plain white button down. Starling wore what appeared to be a white suit jacket, though there was no telling what else. In the other photos, Hannibal's ensemble resembled one he had worn in Italy long ago—an off-white blazer with a shirt, tie, and matching hat. Again, it wasn't too easy to figure out what Clarice wore. It was impossible to say the brands of the clothing they were wearing, but anyone who'd known either of them—especially the former FBI agent—could tell it was them.

Sorrow, frustration, and confusion flooded Doctor Bloom as he briefly touched the mark on Clarice's cheek. His touch was nothing fond, romantic, or heartening. Rather, it was a simultaneous merging of admiration and contempt. It was still there, the gunpowder sign of courage. He could not help but to wonder why she had not had it removed, though that was not the biggest question looming on his mind. Not by a long shot. In a sudden burst of emotion, he tossed the paper across the room. His aging had been evident in his tantrum as well as his face. He was getting too old for his work, never mind the drama and disgrace that came with the Bureau and the tabloids which made it look worse than it already did.

Bloom could not keep from wondering what Jack would have said about this absolute mess. Jack Crawford, long dead, would probably spin around in his grave. He did try to tell her not to let him in her head. However, it seemed, by the nature of a couple of the photographs, as though she had done far more than that. His shame probably would not have been directed at Clarice, rather towards the fact that this was the second protégé he had lost to Hannibal Lecter, in two very distinct manners. Clarice Starling had been his last angel once, the last ray of hope that he could end his career on a positive note. He would have been known for the more than commendable job he had done training Agent Starling, She could have remained a gold star of Behavioral Sciences after Buffalo Bill's killing, but she had not.

His last thought was not how proud he had been of her and her work in the last seven years, it had been a conflicted and divided hope—one part of him hoped that she was still alive and that she would return to the Bureau with little to no damage done; and the other part of him hoped that she was dead, and that Lecter had the decency to make her death quick and merciful, leaving her unconsumed and buried somewhere. _God, please don't serve her up to your unsuspecting pals, you son of a bitch. _Though, there were no more thoughts, for the brain which could have produced them was rotting beneath the Earth next to his wife's decayed corpse. What if was watching from above, if such a thing is even possible? What if he was watching her; knew where she was? He wasn't, and even if he was, there was nothing he could do. He would just have been a disembodied spirit, or something far more inconceivable.

Alan was not the only one to have seen this front page article in the paper. Working tirelessly at her desk at the Bureau, Ardelia Mapp was typing up a report when she noticed a couple of her colleagues whispering about what appeared to be a newspaper. Always attentive to details that seemed suspicious, her dark brows furrowed. Looking to the men, her head canted to the side. "What're you boys yammering on about now?" She asked. Suddenly, they became quiet. The taller of the two seemed to be silent out of fear. The shorter, cruder one seemed to be holding in laughter, suppressing it like an insolent teenager who was reading a smut novel. The older one, Tim Gallegan frowned. He knew that the female agent and the woman on the front page of the _National Tattler _had been friends for several years before Starling supposedly went missing.

"Look, Mapp, I… ummmm, don't think it's such a great idea for you t'know." He had an accent somewhat similar to Starling's, but he was from a different part of West Virginia than she was. Unlike her, he was never judged for it. The other, Sean Randolph, seemed far more willing to let her see. He never really liked Starling—not many male agents had, though. "Ha, Mapp!" He teased, waving the paper in her face. "Looks like your gal pal isn't one of the good guys, after all," He paused, trying not to laugh. "That's got to sting!"

Jaw clenched, she refrained from punching him right then and there. However, she did not prevent herself from taking the paper from him. Quickly, her eyes scanned over the paper, the pictures catching her attention more than the libel. Almost snarling, she saw them… Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter were _kissing_. As if by lightning, the brown-skinned agent took the paper and ripped it as many times as she could manage before throwing into a bin nearby and running out, not saying a word. Once outside, she looked at the emerald ring on her finger, remembering just how loyal to morals and ethics she was once.

What happened to that girl? The girl she had seen was indisputably Clarice, the mark on her cheek quite the positive identifier. But what she saw in those photographs—that was not her. That was not her best friend. Taking the ring off, she wanted so badly to throw it, just as she had a little over a year ago. Yet again, she did not. She put it back on, shoved her hands deep in her pockets, and left work without telling anyone. "God damn it, girl! What the hell happened to you?!" She muttered to herself once she was alone in the car, knowing all too well Starling would never hear her frustrated mumblings.

Meanwhile, in another part of the world, a plane was flying over the Atlantic Ocean. On it were about fifty-five other passengers, ages ranging from infancy to elderly. The newly bred and the nearly dead were all arranged haphazardly, not quite obvious at first glance which passenger truly belonged where, if they belonged to anyone at all. Among these fifty-five travelers were none other than Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter. Once they'd heard about the publications of their photographs, both knew that leaving Buenos Aires, and South America all together, was their only option. To return to America or Italy would be all too foolish. So, they decided to go somewhere new. Their destination was Rota, Spain. Sure, it had not been the first destination on either of their minds, but it seemed best—given their _predicament. _

Coach was full with over forty of the flyers and the rest, which included Starling and Lecter, were in First Class. The auburn-haired woman said that going to that trouble was not necessary, though the escaped convict had insisted upon it. 'Only the best for you, my love' in Italian having been his precise response, and Clarice had remembered it, locked it away in her mind's memory palace in the room—one of a copious amount of rooms—which had been dedicated to Hannibal 'the Cannibal' over the years. It was late, no light streaming in through the airplane windows. Though, the ones within the plane, the ones which shone overhead, were harsh.

Starling had allowed her head to rest upon her lover's shoulder, her hand in his the entire time. A low hum passed through her red-lipstick-painted lips as she tried to allow herself to fall asleep. They had a Walkman between them, some of their favorite Classical music playing in headphones of which were on Clarice's head. Regardless of the fact that Lecter was not wearing the headphones, he could still hear _Goldberg Variations _playing softly in the former law officer's ears. Leaning down, he allowed a chaste kiss to be placed at the top of her head, right behind the headset. She responded by nuzzling against his arm, her gunpowder-marked cheek brushing against his jacket. It did not take long afterward for her to slip into a state of dreaming which would last the rest of the flight.

She awoke when she felt the all too familiar raising of her stomach as the plane came to a landing. She was a little groggy, though it was nothing she would not soon shake herself out of. After being in the FBI so long, Starling had gotten used to sleeping in some not so convenient places only to have to wake up and be awake quickly. Rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, almost like a child would, she let a soft yawn fall from her part lips.

"Good morning, my love." Lecter greeted her in Spanish, receiving a sleepy smile in return.

"Good morning," Inwardly, she followed the words with his first name. They only called one another by their names in private—or at least their real ones. It took her a while to get used to calling him Hannibal after so long of referring to him as 'Doctor Lecter'. It almost always left her with a foreign taste in her mouth—though it was never bad. In fact, it almost always felt good. Starling knew it shouldn't feel that good, but she was evolving, changing into what fate had planned for her. It was a lengthy process, of course, but slow and steady always tends to win races, as the tales tell us. She could still remember when she asked if she could address him as Hannibal, and he replied negatively before she could even say the name. One could venture to guess that it stuck from that very moment. Their dynamic had changed considerably since then.

The home that they had built for themselves in Buenos Aires, while grand, did not compare to the new property they would find and call their own in Spain. It had one more floor than their previous residence and far too many bedrooms for only them to fill. It was almost as if it were meant for more people than just the pair and the staff. And it was. Hannibal and Clarice both had their own secret desires for a family, one that they could bring into the world together and hopefully give better life to than they were dealt. Of course, their reasons for wanting it were far different, though somehow contained undeniable parallels. And while their ages were a factor that played against them, it did not prevent them from not-so-purposefully trying, again and again and again…

Shapely feet partially covered by designer heels emerged from the back of the vehicle they were in, revealing the female counterpart to the serial killer she knew as her significant other. Both of them were above the point and age of labelling one another as 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend'. To both of them, it felt a little too foolish to do such a thing. They were far more than that, yet they were not married, at least not in any official or legal meaning of the term. Their bond was beyond any form of comprehensible labels which existed for relationships, in any language. Did they even feel the need to do such a thing? No. They wore rings, the words _for as long as we live _engraved into the bands. Though, there was nothing else of significance behind the level of their on-going affair, if it could even be called that.

Clarice looked up at the property as soon as she was out of the car, shaking her head in astonishment. Auburn tresses moved along with her. It was comparable to an extension of her being set ablaze without any source of ignition. Lecter had, for reasons he could not quite pinpoint, always found himself fascinated by her hair. He recalled how short and dark it had been over a decade ago, and it seemed to only lighten as she aged. He could not help but to wonder if she looked more like the dead night watchman or the chambermaid. In their entire time of knowing one another, she had never shown him photographs. He doubted she had any to show, for he had never discovered any.

What aided their relationship in succeeding and progressing was that they never hid anything from one another, so he never had to snoop without her knowledge—a good thing, considering he found the act to be quite discourteous. Rudeness was something that sickened him. He had killed for Clarice because of people's rudeness towards her. Lecter only ever did so out of pure necessity. With her there was never any. Doing so would make him a hypocrite. During various occasions of his freedom after being incarcerated and held with the asylum's dungeon-like basement, he would do research on the agent; check on her in a way that would not lead her to him, ways that would ensure that he would never end up back in Baltimore's hospital. Then again, even he was caught, he was sure there would be no cell waiting for him, only the chair. His research gave him nothing of her parents, odd but not truly surprising—not to the doctor.

It was a dark spot upon her past, a blackened room in her memory palace that he had helped her move on from. The room, he imagined, was now probably a dullish gray, but he doubted she went there anymore. She had no true reason to explore it, too contented or absorbed by current events to wander to the place. It was, he believed, equal to that of his trips to his own blackened places—the ones where world war two and his deceased family had been. To say it was an awful time would be wording it lightly. He was right in coming to the conclusion that neither of them stopped to recall the horrid events of their past. He no longer dreamed of Mischa and the scrawny deer being killed and consumed. She no longer had nightmares resounding with screaming lambs. They were both made happier by being with one another, even if obstacles such as the Polaroid images got in the way.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he turned to the employees who had come with them from Buenos Aires on a plane prior to the couple's. They seemed to be standing their like inanimate toys, waiting to be picked up and moved by Lecter, as if his hands were those of God. With quite clear instruction, he told them what to do before going to his lover, the long since former FBI agent. The faintest of smiles played at his features as his fingers, long since a normal amount, did the harpsichord.

Starling could not help but to return it, closing the space between them in a matter of footsteps. Thin arms, covered in soft freckles, draped around his neck before she pulled him into a kiss. It was loving, sensual, and tender all at the same time. However, it was brief. Pulling back, she let her hands linger there upon his cheeks, feeling the aging flesh beneath them. A repeated shake of her head follows.

"You know, no matter how much I get inside that head of yours, it seems you're always full of surprises." That drawl to her voice is unmistakable, especially to Hannibal Lecter's finely-attuned senses.

"I am sure you will come to find that this is quite a good thing. For you and myself both," He pauses there a moment, noting how the warm yet strong air of Rota had managed to dishevel Starling's fiery locks. Taking that moment in which he stopped speaking, he fixed it for her without permission. It was not needed, though. He, unlike his companion, was meticulous. "After all, how absolutely _tedious_ would our relationship be if you saw everything coming at you? Quite a bit, Clarice,"

The way he spoke her name, even to this day, sent chills down her spine in the most unadulterated manners. No, it was not out of fear, or anger, or hatred, or any other negative emotion for that matter. It was a mere thrill that she felt. In layman's terms, it was a turn on. She nodded in agreement, though she was almost ninety-five percent certain that their relationship would flourish without the surprises. Though, she did not complain— not this time.

"Anything you need me to, erm, help with? The stuff, I mean." She gestured towards the exceedingly large shipping truck that had carried their things on a cargo plane, much like the way in which Mason Verger had transported his prized pigs.

Lecter simply shook his head, his own right hand going to caress her left cheek. The back of that same hand then went to the other cheek, caressing the mark of courage which lies right upon her cheekbone. "No, no. There's furniture already inside. Why don't you go in and lie down, rest a bit?" Even though it was not necessary to insist she rest, he was still a doctor; one who cared for Starling's well-being more than anyone. While she wanted to help, she did still feel tired. Her nap on the plane had not been so restful.

The inside of the residence that would be known as the Starling-Lecter home to only them and those who work for them was even more immaculate and awe-inspiring than the outside. The auburn-haired woman had only seen the lengthy foyer and the expansive den, yet she was already in love with it. After allowing her hands to go along what furniture and décor had been added prior to the move, she meandered towards the couch. Shrugging off her navy shaded suit jacket, Clarice draped it over the back of the couch before letting her body fall onto it. Her frame was like a feather, for it seemed to float down to the article of furnishing rather than plummet rapidly. It was cozy to her, reminding her quite a bit of the couches and loveseats they had in Argentina. A soft yawn permeates her lips, still painted with makeup that would have been far too expensive for her back when she was in the Academy. Though, it was apparent that she was no longer that person anymore.

Light blue hues glanced up at the ceiling. It seemed so high above her that it could take three of her just to reach up and touch it. Given her stature, that was probably true. While long-legged, she was still shorter than Hannibal Lecter, who stood a good seven inches above her. Those eyes soon find themselves shutting, falling asleep to the repetitive sounds of the Starling-Lecter employees moving things in for several moments. When she awoke sometime later, she was no longer on the couch. In fact, she was not even on the same floor of the house. She was in their room on the third floor, the top one, in the embrace of none other than her lover, Hannibal. A soft groan left her as she nuzzles against his chest, warm against her pale cheek. As she did this a good portion of her hair became messy yet again. Though, she was too fatigued to care.

"Mm, what time is it? How did I get in bed?" The two questions followed one another as if they were a solitary question, her accent deeper with her sleep.

"I carried you, of course." Lecter said, glancing to the obscenely large grandfather clock across the room. It was nearing eight o'clock pm. "It's 7:56, Clarice."

Knowing that he had carried her was oddly surprising, though this feeling faded rapidly thereafter. A whine followed his announcement of the time, hating that she had slept so much. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes of sleep; almost like a child who had been crying would do so. Over her shoulder, she glanced back to Lecter, giving him a smile. Starling had been peevish too much lately, considering all that her partner in love and crime had done for her. "Thank you," The red-head said, pushing the blankets off of her frame. "Yeee, is my running stuff still packed or?"

"You want to run this late?" He queried, completely ignoring her question for a moment. It seemed as though Clarice Starling also was one to have a surprise or two within her. "They are in the armoire, I believe." He spoke, knowing that all their other clothing had filled the walk-in closet. Lecter also had a strong feeling that this would give the clothes easier access for her early morning exercise regime.

"Yes, I do." She spoke, kissing him briefly before getting out of bed. Traipsing to the armoire, grabbing her exercise attire before slipping out of her clothing, and putting on the shorts and t-shirt were all done within a matter of moments. By the time she got her shoes on, it was eight o'clock. The clothes which had been on her frame earlier were a reminder of sorts of the time Lecter said she had a little taste, but now how far more than a little—with the assistance of Doctor Lecter, no doubt. "I love you," Starling's voice breached the still night air before she left.

It was not only the fact that Clarice Starling was known for habitual exercise that drove her to running that evening. She liked the idea of getting to know the city through first hand experiences. The air was not as hot as it had been earlier. In fact, it contained a bit of a chill, which felt great against her sweating frame. Rounding a corner, she accidentally ran into someone. Without a second thought, she believed them to be a local. She apologized in Spanish before continuing on. They weren't. This man was an American tourist, but not just an American tourist. It was a man on vacation with his wife and son, a man who was once a consultant for the FBI, a man by the name of Will Graham. A lot had changed about him since Starling had last seen him. His face had aged and had a bit more hair to it, and in a passing glimpse she gave it no other consideration.

The instant he ran into her, he recognized her from the FBI, and of course the wretched tabloids she had been plastered in over the years. Though, he paid them no heed past glances at certain things. This was all too confusing for the retired man. He knew that the FBI and the _National Tattler _had presumed her missing and then spotted again in Buenos Aires, but there she was—Rota, Spain. Conflicted, he did not quite know how to handle this. What he should do, however, is follow the ways of the wise Barney Matthews. Pay the pair no attention and leave as soon as possible. Does he? No.

Starling continues her run, feet pushing her along the serene earth. She is no longer on any streets or sidewalks, just rustic and somewhat oddly placed dirt pathways in which she takes to experience the place she would now call her home. It takes her a little while to get all the way back home but she has no qualms about it. Walking in, her sweaty frame heaves with every breath she takes. Clarice wishes then that she had dedicated a little time to walking, but beyond that she gives it no thought. Smiling to a few of the workers who were doing their late-night duties, she paces to the kitchen and grabs a glass from one of the pantries. They would soon find themselves sleeping, though the former agent would probably be awake until almost midnight. Turning on the faucet, she lets the water get cool before filling the glass, drinking over half of it in one go.

Turning around, the auburn-haired female can hear the soft playing of a harpsichord nearby. Starling could not help but to feel joyous that Hannibal Lecter had made the decision to bring it, regardless of the hassle the act presented. She and he both felt it was quite worth it. Finishing the water, she made sure the glass was clean before making her way towards the sound. Seeing him in the glow of the candlelight which emanated from the candelabra not far from him had made her smile. Propping herself against the doorway's frame, she watched him play. The act in and of itself was entrancing, and this was made even more true by Doctor Lecter.

His focus had primarily been on the instrument, playing what he had written of the piece he was working on. Composing was something he found cathartic, just as he found drawing and many other things. It took his mind off many of his troubles, liberating him from the darkest of rooms in his memory palace. These places were where his dead parents and consumed sister remained. These places were where he dreaded to venture, though he found himself doing so constantly. This was especially true when Clarice Starling was not in his presence. As he picked up his pen to write down a few notes, he inhaled a breath and could smell something all too unique. Starling's sweat wafted into his nose, capturing his attention. He acted as though he did not notice, however, and finished writing before setting aside the pen.

"Hello, my dear." His words rang out, the European accent all too notable as it dripped off his tongue. He did not bother to turn around to look at her. He had no reason to, not yet. Another breath allowed him to capture that scent, recalling the occasions prior to this one when he smelled her like this. On most occasions, he would find the smell of someone's musk repulsive. With her, he could not bring himself to.

A few more notes fill the air that had gone silent after he spoke. His digits pause, his maroon hues coming up from the keys. They find a place on the wall several feet ahead of him, fixating on that spot to gather his thoughts before speaking yet again. "How was your run, Clarice?"

"Hello," Starling finally speaks, her voice a little rough from a temporary lack of usage combined with a sudden dehydration. Perhaps it would have done her some good to have had more than simply one glass of water. She takes off her tennis shoes and sets them beside the doorway. As she does so, she can smell her natural body odor and wished she had taken a shower before coming to the room. It was too late for regrets, though. Small and shapely feet carry her into the room, towards Hannibal as if his voice had drawn her in compulsively. "It was… nice."

"Invigorating?" He asks her, hitting a key before moving a little left to do the same. He does not quite know which sound he likes better, so he repeats the sequence of actions until he has decided. Once he does so, he writes down the note before moving the page aside, starting on a fresh one.

"Yes," She replies simply, stopping once she has gotten close enough to Lecter to touch his shoulder.

"I hope so. You were gone quite a while." He responds, setting down the pen again before finally looking at her. Seeing her sweat-slickened features sends a crackle throughout his eyes, as if each were cameras photographing this moment to keep forever in one of the several rooms within that expansive mind of his. His hand then beckons for her to bring her face a bit lower towards him. His index finger twitches, for he wants so badly to touch her… though not yet. "Come here."

Obediently, she moves her face down towards him, the corners of her lips threatening to tug into a heart-felt smile. Starling has always found her lover's voice to be of a hypnotic tenor. It was one of the many things which had drawn her to him in ways that she used to wish he had not. "I am here."

With that, the anxious digit goes beneath her skin, a simultaneously rough and gentle extension of his being making contact with the smooth skin right beneath her chin. Lecter then brought her lips to his, placing a chaste yet passionate kiss there. He finds himself loving the sensation of her lips on his, the taste being one which unlocked the most carnal of desires within him. After a while, he pulls away, savoring it. His tongue comes out, licking his lips. The taste then differed from the taste he had gotten off her steering wheel years ago, but both had their similarities. And he was all too aware that both tastes had originated from the same source. Once they were open again, his maroon eyes flashed red. He could not help but to note the darkening in the blue eyes of his lover, a sign of lustfulness.

"I think I will go shower and then I will come right back." Clarice's voice managed to come out, her accent thick with her current emotions. She allowed her fingers to gently go through his dark locks before caressing his aging cheek. "Are you going to still be here?"

"I am not going anywhere, my sweet."

"I shall see you in a bit, my heart."

Whenever Hannibal Lecter had a chance to do so, if often took pleasure in finding beauty in the smallest of places. As the moon came into full view within the windows nearest to where he stood, his maroon hues took permanent note of the way the city seemed to glow in silver. It was marvelous, if he had said so himself. A glass of deep red wine was perched in his hand. To those who did not know any better (and perhaps even those who did) he looked as though he were a rather sophisticated vampire, drinking blood from a wine glass after rising from his coffin—if you believe in the lore of vampires and coffins. While deemed a monster by those who claimed to be professionals, he was no vampire.

Wendigo would most likely fit him better, should he have to be stuck into a mythological category. Besides, this man was far too complex to lump into a solitary classification and actually fit within it, and only it. Very few people knew that. Sure, he was no more than a human being, but that did not make him simplistic. The Bureau, as he recalled from his first encounter with Clarice Starling, had messily created too categories of serial killers. It seemed everyone in the world had become a _bottom feeder _by reducing the people around them to labels. He was not the only one who did not fit into the restraints of these atrocious labels, at least to his thinking. Clarice Starling was a complex creature, someone who managed to intrigue him from the very start. Speaking of…

Turning around at the smell of her shampoo and perfume, his thoughts of Rota and of the artlessness of taxonomies interrupted for the time being, he could not help but to give her a sincere yet small grin. He remembered a brief time in which all he had was his memory—the dungeon of the asylum for the criminally insane in Baltimore lacking a view. In Spain, as well as Buenos Aires, Lecter had his view. And he would not alter it in any way, or exchange it for anything in the world. His view was the auburn haired young woman, who went from a rube with a little taste to a warrior with a twisted since of morality, and was now the love of his life with the touch of Argentina and Spain in her freckled skin.

"My! My!" He exclaimed, advancing towards her with eloquent steps. Still, despite the time that he passed, Lecter had the grace of a dancer. "You look positively… l-o-v-e-l-y."

The emphasis upon the word 'lovely' was hard to miss, and Starling had not. A slight blush filled her cheeks with a light pink tinge of color. It did not last long, but it did highlight the gunpowder mark on her cheek. Her damp hair looked more of a brown shade than red, but neither of the two seemed to mind at all. As he approached, she crossed her arms and let her head fall gently to rest upon the eloquent wood of the doorway's frame. It felt cold against her scalp. She wore a robe of silk that she always put on before bed. The only variable had been whether or not clothing of any kind would go beneath. Tonight, Starling decided against it.

"Thank you," Her voice finally left her throat, echoing out through slightly-parted, makeup-free lips. She never wore makeup to bed, as she felt it would ruin bed sheets and pillow cases. She was probably right, though Lecter never lectured her on it. He did, however, feel she never needed the stuff. Her natural beauty always astounded him, and while Starling always looked her age, she wore it exceedingly well.

Hannibal, capable of unspeakable monstrosity, now used his hands in ways people like Dr. Frederick Chilton believed he was unable to. He allowed them to go up to cup her cheeks in a tender manner, caressing her pale flesh with his thumbs. For a moment, he found himself getting caught up within her light blue eyes, though he tore his own orbs away before noting the color of her skin. While it was always on the pale side, it looked paler now. Whether it was the moonlight or not was something he unfortunately could not decipher.

"Are you feeling ill, Clarice?" Lecter questioned, head tilted to the right more so out of concern than the intrigue that usually came with the act.

Ginger brows came together in confusion, shaking her head as she did so. Why was he asking her this? It certainly had been a random question. She would not be surprised if he could smell impending illness on her. Now that would certainly have been a neat trick! However, she felt perfectly fine. In fact, she felt better than fine. She felt euphoric and exhilarated. It was a feeling she always relished, especially if it came from her lengthy runs or sex with Lecter.

"No, Hannibal," her own head tilting then. "Why do you ask?"

"You look a little pale."

A breath of a laugh permeates her teeth and lips.

"I always look pale, Hannibal. I don't tan, remember? I… freckle."

"I know. I know. It's just—…"

His words were halted by her mouth, it crashing into his with a great deal of passion. In a sudden motion, she turned them so that his back was against the wall beside the portal of the room. Her hands were on his upper arms, feeling the appealing musculature that still remained, despite his aging. A low hum emanated from her lowermost throat—primal and purposeful. One thing that Lecter found himself liking about Starling after they became lovers was her overall dominance. Some occasions, she would allow him to have it or he would simply take it with no qualms towards it. But most of the time, she was the one in control. For one reason or another, it felt good to him. It felt wholesome and freeing. It indeed had kept him from wandering into those darker rooms of his memory palace.

He did, however, go there to retrieve one vital bit of information. He wondered just how long it had been since he combined his brutish tendencies with his gentle capabilities in this type of situation. It had been weeks ago, in Buenos Aires, on the terrace, a full moon, warm air, no voyeurs. For a split second, he relished in his reverie as he reciprocated the kiss. His concentration was divided between the past and the present, but this did not last long enough for the former FBI agent to notice. Deciding his next move, he surprised her and lifted her from the floor and turned them so that her back crashed into the wall. It was certainly not enough to hurt her, but he could tell from the way her eyes sparkled in the combined moonlight and candlelight that it was pleasurable.

Lecter knew he would not wish to maintain the control for their entire intimate rendezvous, for he would relinquish it willingly back to her once they got to their bed. For now, though, he wished nothing more than to have her back against the wall, wet hair in a bit of a mess, bodies clashing so feverishly as they kissed that it would be quite maddening, lips growing hungrier by the minute—for both participants. Only a little while longer, he thought to himself, let her let you have this moment. Devour her in this moment, savor her now—cherish her forever. His lips moved along her jawline roughly yet sweetly. Once to her neck, he allowed his teeth to become a crucial part of their lustful equation.

The thing about Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling was that they had a level of trust between them that neither had ever had with prior love interests, and could never have with any future ones—should the occasion arise, which it would not. She would never tell him to stop, that if he truly loved her he would stop—not in a thousand years. He would take her right to the point where most would quake with fear aimed at him, and turn the tables so that ecstasy was all she would ever be capable of feeling in that instant. However, she never felt fear. She had, unknowingly, given him her heart long ago—and with that, was her trust towards him. It, like her heart, was nonrefundable. The question remained, was Hannibal 'the Cannibal' even capable of doing the same? He was, yet it would not be in any way that would be considered healthy. Then again, nothing about their relationship could even be considered healthy.


End file.
